


but in the morning

by qrow



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Other, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 02:18:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19263970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qrow/pseuds/qrow
Summary: just another warden in another version of the events that took place in origins. from zevran's pov, of all people, unless i change my mind later.





	1. on the road

**Author's Note:**

> the thing about yun mahariel i've been planning for a long time and took until now to finally stop dancing around the subject and just push it out. somewhat canon compliant -- things end up where they should, but take paths that sometimes don't exist in the game. working title -- from a song, not that it has to do with anything.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zevran tries to find his place, and mahariel isn't helping.

“ _You’re_ the — the _murder-happy_ one, why don’t _you_ point the knife at him?”

 

“I am _not_ — I think he’s awake.”

 

Zevran’s vision had gone black following a sharp wallop to the head — possibly against the rock wall of the small quarry they were fighting in — and just as promptly awoken to an argument happening very close by. He opened his eyes to a dagger being pointed at him, just beneath his chin, and he gasped. He could feel the phantom tip of the blade against the soft tissue of his neck. A Dalish elf was wielding it, poised to cut his neck open if they so chose.

 

“Mm… I rather thought I would wake up dead. Or not at all, as the case may be. But, as far as wake-up calls go, this one is not bad at all,” he slurred, laughing at the irony, pressing himself back against the axle of the wagon wheel he was tied to, away from the knife. Odd that he should feel like he was being saved, given the situation.

 

The Dalish searched his face, their brows knotting up in a perplexed expression — which was delightful, all things considered. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

 

“My name is Zevran. I work, first and foremost, for a guild of assassins called the Antivan Crows,” he said, watching their movements carefully, “and then, contractually of course, the man who wants you both dead.”

 

At that, the human stormed over and knelt down beside him, his face inches away from Zevran’s own and full of barely contained hate and anger.

 

“What do you know about Loghain? Where is he now?” he demanded. Next to him, the Dalish lowered the dagger a fraction, allowing the human more room to conduct his own impromptu interrogation.

 

“How should I know? He is in your capital, I assume,” Zevran told him. “I am the assassin he hired, not his personal aide. Had I succeeded, I would have returned home, and the Crows would have their pay — I would not have had to see him personally at all.”

 

“And if you had failed?” the human asked.

 

“If he failed, he’d be dead,” the Dalish answered for him. “I doubt Loghain would’ve wanted him running his mouth about the job to his marks if he could help it. And if he went back home, I really doubt his guild would let him live after such an embarrassment.”

 

“‘Embarrassment’? I am sure you are quite skilled. Do you think so lowly of yourselves?” Zevran wondered, amusement coloring his voice.

 

The Dalish glanced at him. “Loghain himself hired you. That means royal coin. Which means, with the job riding on so much money and politics, that upon failure the Crows would just send another assassin — first to finish the job… and then to clean up the mess.”

 

“What a wild imagination you have, my dear,” Zevran said, sobering up, “and how accurate. You are correct, Warden; the Crows will be coming after me — and you. And since you know they will be coming either way, I am sure you are weighing the same options as I am, currently.”

 

The two Wardens shared a brief glance, communicating something silently.

 

“He’ll be more useful to us alive than dead, Alistair,” the Dalish said.

 

“He tried to _kill us_ ,” the human, Alistair, returned.

 

“What would be the point in trying again? He’s dead even if he does,” the elf said, and as Alistair got back on his feet to pace, they followed, as well. “You’re always saying we need more help…”

 

“But how do we trust him?” Alistair demanded of the Dalish.

 

“Well, the way I see it, being of use to you both is the only chance I have to stay alive,” Zevran said, causing the both of them to turn around. “Here are my options: I am killed now. Or, I am turned loose, and killed by the Crows — or the darkspawn. Or, I stay with you, and offer you my skills in return for your protection. And, honestly, there are worse things in the world than to be in service to two very good-looking Grey Wardens. Am I wrong?”

 

Alistair frowned, and the elf rolled their eyes.

 

“Are you always this glib when bargaining for your life?” they asked him.

 

Zevran shrugged. “What can I say? I am an eternal optimist. So then,” he said, “what is to be done with me?”

 

The elf glanced at Alistair, who sighed, rubbed his temples, and shrugged, deferring to his fellow Warden. They frowned at him, but turned back to Zevran after a moment of deliberation.

 

“Alright. You stay with us,” they decided, and reached around him to cut his ropes loose. As they drew back, the pommel of the dagger still at the small of his back, they whispered in his ear, breath hot enough to send a shiver down his spine, “Your lucky day.”

 

He stood up, somehow, though his legs wobbled from cramps and the dark gaze of a certain Warden, and drew the oath out from thin air.

 

“I am your man, without reservation,” he promised, looking the Dalish directly in the eyes as he did so.

 

* * *

 

 

He was in a corridor covered ceiling to floor with wood and witchlight lamps that bounced off the finely polished wood, rippling across the entire corridor like wind across water. He wouldn’t have known where he was if he himself were not also giving off a light similar to the witchlights, but warm, and faint, like a small collection of tealights. It gave just enough definition to his surroundings that he could see the hall and not think he was simply underwater.

 

Odd, he thought. At first, he thought the oddness was the fact that though he _was_ illuminating the small area around him, and though that light _was_ being reflected back at him from the walls, ceiling, and floor, when he looked at his hand, it was quite ordinary. No illumination whatsoever. Then he thought the oddness was that he himself had no reflection, though he thought he saw it in the wall. He walked closer, but the person-shaped image did not clear up. He went even closer until he was nearly touching the wall.

 

It touched him back. He knew it was the wall, because it felt exactly the same as touching any highly polished wood — smooth, and cool, only in this instance he was not the one in control of the sensation, and he jumped back. He looked down just in time to see a hand retreat back into the rippling blues and oranges, and when he reflexively followed the hand upward to find the rest of the body, the figure was walking away from him, further down the hall.

 

He followed it. As he did, he saw that the figure that touched him was not the only one; the hall was filled with dark reflections of people he could not see clearly, a silent crowd that churned like an ocean in a storm. The hall seemed to spin, and as though to punctuate the point, he fell over, thrown off-balance. He scrambled to his feet, determined to follow the figure, even though he couldn’t see where it had gone, or which one it even was out of the throng in the walls. But each time he got to his feet, the world lurched and threw him back onto the floor, in which shadowy faces watched and dark hands reached for him. Anxiety shot through him as he tried and failed to get back on his feet as waves of disorientation crashed upon him. Another attempt saw him knocked flat on his back.

 

The corridor faded in and out of darkness as he lost consciousness, but he couldn’t feel the blow to his head, even though it must have happened. He stared up at the ceiling, feeling strangled, at faces he could just barely recognize, and wanted to scream.

 

Then he fell through the floor.

 

“Morning, Sunshine,” said a loud voice.

 

A wooden, mechanical _clunk_ vibrated and bumped against the cheekbone Zevran had pressed to the surface he was laying on, followed by bright sunlight and breeze rushing up against his suddenly exposed form. He opened his eyes blearily, and blinked up at the Dalish from the day before above him, gazing down with a sort of amused look on their face. In their hands was clutched the mottled brown fur he was using as a blanket.

 

“I don’t suppose asking for another five minutes would work,” he said, half joking. He _was_ quite tired, still.

 

“You supposed right,” they said, flinging the fur off into a corner of the wagon, then crouched down. “We just stopped to make camp for the day. You’re... sort of in our wagon.”

 

“I... don’t quite remember that being my fault, specifically.”

 

They chuckled. “Fair enough. Then if you would be so kind...?”

 

They held out their hands, which Zevran looked at. A show of trust. Nothing up their sleeves, as it were. They weren’t wearing sleeves, anyway. He got onto his knees, grabbed them by the wrists, and let himself be dragged to his feet.

 

The inside of the wagon was barely tall enough for him to stand up in, let alone the Dalish, who by his sleepy calculations was about half a head taller than him. Both their heads scraping the canvas covering, he looked into their eyes as he blinked the sleep from his own. When it appeared he had finally regained his focus, the elf gestured him outside, in front of them.

 

“You don’t trust me at your back, Warden?” he teased, turning around as he reached the threshold. The elf shrugged.

 

“Nah. Just that I’m not supposed to let you near our stuff. You understand.” And then they pushed him out into the sunlight.

 

A little dazed by the sudden change in brightness, Zevran leaned against the sides of the landing outside, and tried to look back into the now pitch blackness of the wagon interior.

 

“You did let me sleep in there,” he pointed out.

 

“Yeah, I already got my head chewed off for that. Don’t start,” came the reply, and then the sounds of unpacking boxes suggested to him that the conversation, for the moment, was over.

 

He sighed, or perhaps more accurately, breathed in, and found it... new. Quite odd, given that it also smelled of wet things; the musty smell of things for which _wet_ was a constant state of being. Things that might have gone moldy in the interim, or will, shortly. He mused on _water_ and _green_ and _growth_ until the elf emerged from the wagon a minute later to interrupt his thoughts, arms laden with bowls and a pot.

 

“Can I help with that?” he asked. The elf gave him a look.

 

“You have to know the answer is ‘no’.”

 

“I had to offer,” he said, shrugging. The elf made a huffing sort of noise.

 

“Well... wait here,” they said, sighing. They set the bowls and the pot down, and disappeared back inside, reappearing a moment later with several wooden poles, a bag, and a canvas draped across their arms, which they then handed to Zevran — or, rather, forced him to choose between catching them, or having them fall on top of him. They then looped the handle of the bag around one of his wrists.

 

“That’s gonna be your tent,” they told him, pulling a leather cord from their belt and gathering their hair up on their head. They pointed straight ahead with their chin and went to gather the bowls. “Start walking in that direction.”

 

So he did, and tried to figure out how to present himself as he did so. The Warden presented themself to _him_ in a way that was somehow overly familiar, and yet alarmingly distant. It made him wonder where his boundaries were, exactly, and how often he would be allowed to test them before it was too much. It seemed, at least, that his nudges so far have been met with little more than a shrug.

 

They directed him across the clearing, the perimeter of which was a decent morning stroll. Two others were already building a fire; a red-headed woman, and the Alistair from yesterday, who shot them both a look as they approached. Zevran wondered to whom that look was addressed. The elf set the bowls down by the firewood, and shared a silent conversation with Alistair, which was animated and just _barely_ silent enough that it might have been funny, had it not ended with such an uncomfortable weight in the air... and had they not been arguing about him.

 

The elf, seeming to want a door to slam, but not wanting to risk breaking the dishware, instead picked up a sizeable twig from the ground and hurled it into the small fire, where the still-damp wood instantly put out the struggling flame.

 

“Can I assume that this—” he indicated the tent supplies in his arms with a shrug “—was not previously agreed upon?” he asked, once they were far enough away. They shrugged, but the way their fingers curled and uncurled slightly made him think they had very much wanted contact during that argument.

 

“It was discussed,” they said shortly, which really just meant the argument they had about it was never finished. “I don’t know what he’s so upset about; if you don’t have your _own_ tent, you’ll have to share with one of _us_ , which I’m sure is a worse option to him. This is the spot.”

 

Zevran stopped. They were at the edge of the clearing, at the farthest point from the wagon they could be without being in the forest. He dropped the bag, which made a dull, heavy noise against the damp earth. He dropped the canvas and most of the poles, but left one in his hands to fiddle with. He stuck it into the ground and leaned on it conversationally.

 

“He doesn’t know that the forced sharing of habitat can encourage trust and intimacy?” he wondered at the elf, who just looked at him silently, still snuffing out the last of the residual anger.

 

“I guess he doesn’t,” they said flatly.

 

“Ah. That’s just as well. One can’t force something that isn’t wanted, hm?” He leaned even more on the pole, finding the balance between a daring feat and falling flat on his face. “And what is your opinion on the matter?”

 

They raised their eyebrows at him. “Us? Sharing a tent?”

 

“It is not such a terrible idea. The best way to keep an eye on me is to be near me constantly, yes? And there is the building of trust to think about. That can begin with the symbolic building of the tent together.” He swung nearer to them, the pole digging up dirt that was starting to pile up at his feet. “What say you?”

 

It took a moment for them to answer, during which they seemed increasingly amused, but not in the way Zevran had been driving towards. They were barely able to disguise the snort of laughter. “You don’t know how to build a tent, do you?”

 

Rather taken aback, he stood up straight, and cleared his throat awkwardly. “As it happens... no. It was never a focus in any part of my training, I’m afraid.”

 

“No?” they said, genuinely amused. They laughed faintly, reached forward for the pole in his hand, and tugged it out of his grasp. “Fine. You win this time.”

 

* * *

 

 

He followed the Warden throughout the day as they did various chores involved in setting up camp, and very pointedly ignoring everyone else, even if that person wasn’t Alistair. During lunch, they took two rolls of bread and a fistful of dried cured meat, gave half to him, and gave him the names of each party member, sat far enough away to remain unheard.

 

“And you?” he asked.

 

“Yun. Mahariel, if it matters,” they said.

 

Most surnames didn’t matter unless you had enough gold to flash around to prove that it did. If you had a surname regardless, then it clearly mattered to _someone_. Even if that someone wasn’t him.

 

“Only if you expect to be addressed by it.”

 

Yun made a dismissive noise around the bite of meat in their mouth. “Yun’s fine.”

 

“Indeed,” he said pointedly. He thought Yun looked amused for a moment, until something like sense took them by the shoulders and shook.

 

“You aren’t... what I expected,” they said.

 

“Let me guess: you expected an assassin loyal to his guild, ready to die at a moment’s notice in order to protect its secrets,” Zevran said. “Unfortunately, they were all indisposed, leaving me to take the contract on your life. Happily, this worked out in your favor, did it not?”

 

“Did it?”

 

“Well, here I am, your source for information on Crow tactics, and one more blade for your cause, am I not?” Yun made a face like they were smelling something foul in another room. “Oh, I see. You don’t trust me.”

 

Yun laughed. “Sorry, were you expecting me to?”

 

“One might wonder why you didn’t kill me, then.”

 

“Is that how you always deal with people?”

 

“If I am getting paid for it, certainly. Of course, if you are speaking of personal matters, usually never speaking to them again and going out of my way to avoid them works well enough. But ours is not a personal matter, is it?”

 

“Killing you would be too much trouble to be worth it, I think.”

 

“...It is not the life for everyone, I admit,” Zevran said, shrugging off the sudden anxiety. “Of course, I find belonging to a guild for which its only function is assassination helps smooth out any wrinkles the process of killing people might produce.”

 

“That would help,” Yun agreed.

 

“But you seem to be doing fine.”

 

They lapsed into silence for a while, having finished their meal during the conversation. They watched Alistair and Leliana chat quietly by the fire, Sten and Morrigan nowhere to be seen, as they seemed to be the sort to prefer that state of being.

 

“Are you saying you wouldn’t mind it if I killed you?” Yun asked, suddenly.

 

Zevran shifted uncomfortably, because there was a sincere curiosity to that question. He just didn’t know why. “Hmm. I think _understand_ would be the more accurate word. You were the mark; I, the assassin. It is how these things go. Why would I mind?”

 

“I mean now.”

 

“As much as I might hope you wouldn’t, you have every right to kill me, even now. Dead men don’t mind, after all.”

 

These were dangerous games he was playing with Yun, and the voice in his head that he had suppressed all his life until recently told him so. Insistently. But he had not had a decent conversation about death for such a long time, and he wanted to know what Yun might say.

 

Presently, Yun was oddly pensive, and said nothing at all.

 

“Of course, these are all hypotheticals,” he said, waving it off as nonchalantly as he could, given his heightened state of anxiousness, “and I don’t think my logic makes very much sense to you, anyway.”

 

“It... does, actually,” Yun said.

 

“Oh? Well, now,” he said, shifting into a more comfortable position, “not many outside my profession do. You are a rare thing, indeed.”

 

“Flatterer,” Yun accused, though their lips turned up as they said it.

 

“Perhaps. But it is still true, and it is nice to be understood. Many Crow recruits find the killing hard to stomach, what with the possibility of death, and personal morals, and all. But if you refuse to accept your role, you will be killed. Either by the trainers or by circumstance, eventually, but of course no Master would allow a weak-willed recruit to progress so far.” Zevran shrugged. “I often find myself an instrument of fate, ending one life or another — a playing card in a politician’s hand. I found it enjoyable.”

 

“Being an assassin?”

 

“Well, it was either that or death, one way or another, as I said. I eventually found pleasure in the hunt, the feeling of sinking a blade into flesh, of having power over a life. There is a certain artistry, there.”

 

“I know what you mean,” Yun said, picking over their words carefully. “In hunting, at least. Animals.”

 

“And have you not killed a person?” Zevran put his chin in his hand. “I _was_ there to see the aftermath of our fight, you know.”

 

“Is that what it is? You think of your marks as animals?” Yun asked.

 

“Not in such callous terms,” Zevran said, feeling a buzzing in his veins again. “They are people. Then they are dead people.”

 

“So you enjoy killing people.”

 

Zevran sat up, well out of Yun’s personal space. “The _hunt_ , I said, my dear Warden. The _process_ of the kill. It is... not the same thing.”

 

Yun looked at him for a long time, puzzled.

 

“I told you, I get it,” they said, with an insistence that betrayed the impersonal brevity of that statement.

 

“Do you,” he said, for lack of anything else.

 

“Hey, I don’t know your life. That’s just what you had to do. Like you said, the alternative was death, right?”

 

Zevran couldn’t help himself. “The alternative is always death, my dear.”

 

To his surprise, Yun chuckled. “I guess that’s true.”

 

“I find it surprising you took this conversation with me as far as you did, if I am honest,” he said.

 

Yun didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Did it sound like I wanted to kill you, just now?”

 

“It crossed my mind.”

 

They made a small ‘oh’ noise. “Sorry.”

 

“But now you know how I would feel about it.”

 

“Yeah,” Yun said, and got up to stretch. Zevran stared up at them, at the sunlight catching the white fly-away hair coming out of their bun. Then they gave him a reassuring smile, and despite himself, his heart jumped. “But I won’t.”

 

He rapidly composed himself. “I am glad to hear it. I knew you were a person of virtue.”

 

Yun’s expression shifted slightly, as it might have if he’d viewed it from a different angle, and they held it there for a second longer than it felt right to, like a grip tightening in a formerly amicable handshake. The same word in a different tone.

 

“Kind of you to say,” they said, and Zevran wondered what they meant by it.

 

* * *

 

They packed up camp after a brief rest, having all gone to sleep at dusk. The sky was still dark when they woke, and would stay that way for quite a while yet. Zevran had a feeling this was his fault.

 

“Well, yeah,” said Yun, shrugging. “Harder to get ambushed at night, generally.”

 

“I’ve heard some companies employ elves exclusively for night attacks,” Leliana said.

 

“Oh, _good_.”

 

“It may be that the Crows are good at what they do,” Zevran said, deciding to ignore all that, “but not even they can cross the Free Marches and the Waking Sea all in one day.”

 

“Maybe. Or you could’ve been lying about having come here alone,” Alistair said shortly.

 

“If that were true, then what a long, complicated plan that would’ve been,” Yun said, rolling their eyes.

 

“I’m just saying it’s possible,” Alistair said shortly.

 

“That is true,” Zevran conceded. Yun turned to him, almost offended that he’d take Alistair’s side over theirs.

 

“Whose side are you on?” they demanded.

 

“The one that will keep you both out of danger, of course,” Zevran said quickly. “I was telling the truth, but of course the Crows may have had their own plans they neglected to inform me of. Regardless, they will be coming for us eventually, so we may as well get a move on, hm?”

 

Yun scoffed.

 

The night sky was clearer than he imagined a Fereldan sky could ever be, clear enough that he could see the dome of the sky, dotted with stars. No one here could afford a moment of awe, and it wasn’t like him to be so introspective, but he thought, with his newfound freedom — temporary and fraught as it was — he could surely get away with some indulgence. He let himself stare up at the stars, nearly falling into that sea of blue.

 

“Still dreaming?”

 

Evidently, nothing and no one would ever let him get away with it. He cast his gaze downwards to see Yun looking amused at him.

 

“I assure you, Warden, I have my wits about me no matter which way my eyes are pointed,” he said.

 

“Uh-huh. Especially when they’re focused somewhere lower, I bet. I've seen you.” They raised their eyebrows. He didn’t think they looked terribly offended, but he would make sure.

 

“Of course, it would be difficult for anyone to look away from beautiful things, I’d imagine, and I am nothing if not a multitasker,” he said,  “but if you'd like for it to stop, just say the word.”

 

They _hmed_. “What's your aim, anyway?”

 

“As I said—”

 

“I mean the whole thing where you pretend to be attracted to everyone.”

 

“ ‘Pretend’?” he said, nearly offended. “My dear lady—”

 

“Not a lady,” Yun said.

 

“...My dear Warden,” he amended, and Yun seemed amused by his choice, “I would never _pretend_ around a group of such attractive people. My attraction is genuine. Until it is unwanted, anyway.”

 

“And then what? You flirt so generously with people who have every reason to kill you. Is it for insurance?” Yun asked. “Is it fun?”

 

“It is simply who I am,” Zevran said carefully. “It is how I interact with people. It doesn't have to go anywhere; as a matter of fact, most of the time of doesn't. But it is fun. And if it also buys me insurance... I won't complain about that.”

 

“Is it a Crow thing?”

 

“It is a Zevran thing.”

 

“So it's just for fun. And if it goes further...?”

 

“Are you asking?” Zevran said, and then Yun tossed him a look that made him wish he hadn't. “Well, it would still be for fun. How often does one have the opportunity for guiltless pleasure in this line of work? You must enjoy what you can, before you can't. Do you agree?”

 

Yun shrugged. “I got by,” they said, vaguely.

 

“So you wish for me to stop. This I can do.”

 

“I never said _that._ ” The corner of their mouth turned up. “I just wanted to know where you thought this was going.”

 

“Only at your command,” he said, and Yun left it at that. He wasn't sure what to do with that.

 

“So do you get nightmares often?” Yun asked him, after a moment. “Or was I just lucky yesterday when I came to wake you up?”

 

“As often as anyone else, I think,” Zevran answered. “Are you so surprised? We do not exactly live idyllic lives, people like you and I. There is bound to be a nightmare or two.”

 

Yun made a motion that was like a nod and a shrug, tucking their chin into their chest. “I used to have nightmares about my mother.”

 

“Your mother?”

 

“She — well, she ‘left’ the clan is what they told me, but, I mean — she probably died. After my father died. You know,” Yun said in clipped tones. They shrugged. “I dreamed about her when I was a child. I thought she turned into the moon, and every full moon, she’d be able to see me.”

 

“And this was a nightmare?”

 

“It didn’t make me feel _good_ ,” Yun said drily, and they fell silent.

 

"I used to have nightmares about one of the tests I had to take to become a Crow," he offered, to fill the silence.

 

"How... is that a nightmare?" Yun wondered.

 

"Well, I was — to put it lightly — a cocky bastard," he said. In the dream, he could almost feel the pain of the racking in actuality, the feeling that his limbs might never work right again, but this did not make for good conversation. "I was not thirteen years old. The things I said. Embarrassing, really."

 

Yun _hmed_ amusedly. "Then it was good that I saved you from that horrific torture, wasn't it?"

 

"Yes, yes," Zevran chuckled. "My hero."

 

* * *

 

The Frostbacks carved a dark shape out of the indigo backdrop of a night sky, like the fingers of a giant hand cradling the world, and inspired as much awe as they did anxiety. None of them had ever climbed to any of its peaks before. Yun hadn’t either, whose mention is only of note because they said their clan camped atop one of its foothills once, but that it had “hardly counted”, due to the fact that “it was summer, and there wasn’t even any snow or anything”. But the trees there were, reportedly, very climbable.

 

All the talk of summer made the cold of the current season sting that much more. Zevran especially, since he had foolishly lost his fight with the Wardens in his thinnest leggings and therefore hadn’t had the chance to obtain any more — neither was anyone else willing to part with one of theirs. He was hoping someone would notice his plight and take pity on him and spare him a fur or two, wet dog smell or no, but the only two likely to do that were currently huddled together in hushed conversation — under the same fur, no less, which probably said it all when it came to extra furs.

 

There was a tension in the air that hadn’t been as pronounced a few days before. This tension was a hammer, poised to strike.

 

Yun and Alistair famously didn’t get along, but they were willing to put their animosity aside at least long enough to work out their travel plans. It was a tenuous peace; not so much a truce as it was mutually assured destruction. They were traveling through Blight-touched lands, and they needed each other.

 

Earlier, Yun and Alistair had gone into the wagon to make sure they had the right treaties for their arrival at Orzammar’s gates, which sounded simple in theory. What ended up happening was a hushed but vicious argument, which should not have surprised anyone. Even so, the upset washed over the group like ice.

 

Even as new to the group as he was, Zevran knew the group had an unwritten, unsaid rule to keep the two Wardens apart as much as possible — although this rule was only really enforced by Leliana. And so it was she who pulled Yun aside and wrapped them up as they shook with anger, and she who gently pried their nails from their palms. Zevran suddenly felt voyeuristic as he watched this. An intruder.

 

The two stayed together on the wagon, just across from where Zevran decided to curl up. Their conversation ended some minutes ago when Leliana finally fell asleep on Yun’s shoulder, but despite having stayed up all last night to keep watch over him, the Warden was not the slightest bit asleep, even if they looked as though they might fold like a house of cards if one so much as breathed on them.

 

Looking at them now, fatigue having stripped them down to nothing but raw emotion, Zevran could see more of the fighter who bested him in battle, and little to nothing of the person who’d made conversation with him the whole day afterwards. This one... was angry. The kind of person who could have killed him, easily.

 

He would not entertain the idea that one Yun was more genuine than the other, because the only thing that could be reliably known about another person was what they were willing to show you. He wondered instead about the sort of relationship he would have with Yun — would it be a comfortable one? A professional one? Or a nervous one?

 

The sudden desperation to _quit_ clawed out of his chest like a hungry monster. He’d earned death, he thought. But perhaps death was not enough.

 

Yun looked at him for a moment, locking their eyes for an unquantifiable amount of time that felt to Zevran almost like a dream. He held the gaze — not like a man standing his ground, but like a man who had walked into a wolf’s den on purpose.


	2. a paragon of her kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you can't leave half your companions alone for two weeks without them taking down a criminal organization by accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mentions of suicide

Zevran had heard that suicide becomes impossible once you lose your nerve — at least, for the moment. He understood the logic well enough, and the despair came in bits and pieces anyway. There had been nights he’d been unable to control his thoughts, and thought would be the last night of his life, only to wake up, quite alive the next morning, albeit numb.

 

He was feeling that more than anything else recently: numb. It might’ve simply been the result of being underground for so long and having nothing much to show for it — they investigated crimes in the city, eliminated those responsible on behalf of whatever government still functioned in Orzammar, watched a few Provings, and still more tasks that really only amounted to busy work when you got right down to it.

 

Being in Orzammar proved to be more of an exercise in self-reflection than Zevran would have ever assumed. He was used to being busy, and with the assembly still gridlocked and any hope of reaching any decision at all having been extinguished within the first twelve hours of their visit, Zevran was becoming uncomfortably acquainted with the concept of idleness.

 

Simply put, he was bored. Apparently, being bored made him anxious. Being anxious has led him to make the spontaneous decision to clean and sharpen all of his blades, remove any trace of mud from his clothing and equipment, trim his hair and nails — and this was only by the third day. He'd even offered to clean and sharpen everyone else's weapons, if they were willing to entrust him with them.

 

It was morning, now, Zevran was sure — it was hard to tell, at first, on their first few days in the city. There was a morning bell that rang somewhere in the Diamond Quarter that washed down each of the city’s many tiers, which helped, initially. But eventually his body’s natural rhythm adapted to the city’s cycle, and he generally woke up at the right time, even without the bell.

 

Currently, he was stuck in bed. It was a slow thing, waking up. It took longer, now, to find his way back into his body than it did before. His mind was thick water and fog and nothing was worth waking up for. It wasn’t melancholy; it wasn’t anything at all. He laid there, on his side, watching the lavafalls beyond the limits of the city run slowly down the rock face through the window, wondering if there really was an afterlife. What death would feel like.

 

The luminous oranges and yellows slowly fell, and he watched.

 

It was cowardice, really, that he's still alive. He was, and is, a coward. Death was not difficult to come by, and there was no reason for him to wait for the right opportunity to come along.

 

Still, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

 

Just then, there was a noise just outside the door, and for some reason his reaction to it was to jump out of the covers like he’d been burnt — but whoever it was outside didn’t come in. He stood there in his smallclothes and nightshirt, heart pounding ridiculously fast, like an idiot, wondering what was wrong with him. Whoever it was wouldn't have come in without asking; these people were not Crows, after all.

 

As he sat back down on the bed, he realized he was shaking. He needed to calm down. It wasn't as if Yun was going to ask him to accompany them anywhere; in fact, they'd been quite obvious about not doing so, leaving him with a lot of free time to do other, less productive things, such as panicking about absolutely nothing. He wasn't sure why the sudden change, as they'd been quite lax about having him around initially. Perhaps they'd come to their senses.

 

The monotony should have been a good thing. It should have been a constant for him to hold on to; something to fall back on should something unpleasant occur. Instead, every day it felt like the slightest control he had managed to retain over his life was slipping out of his fingers like water, and he didn’t know what to do about it. His life now was completely unscripted, like thinking you had gotten to the bottom of the stairs, only to realize too late that there was one more step.

 

* * *

 

 

It was now a week since they arrived, and still Orzammar was no closer to having a king. Zevran was busy with Leliana’s blades, who had recently decided that not tampering with anyone's weapons was in fact within Zevran's best interests, so why not? Free is free. Zevran was only glad for something to busy himself with.

 

At least he wasn’t alone in his fidgeting. No one was pleased with the situation; Alistair and Yun least of all. Given that every moment they spent twiddling their thumbs was a moment not spent fighting the advancement of the Blight, a little anxiety was understandable, and let the record show that Zevran would not like to die being torn apart by darkspawn, or eaten by one, or whatever it is they do.

 

That train of thought got him wondering about his death, now that his plans have gone quite awry. He _would_ die, certainly, sooner or later. He only wondered if he would be surprised by how.

 

“Zevran?” asked Leliana, who suddenly appeared at the doorway. She showed up at his door often the past few days — knowing her, it was probably to keep him company. It just so happened to have the added bonus of being able to keep an eye on him when no one else could. It suited him fine. He was reluctant to admit it, but it was nice to have another person he could feel comfortable around when Yun was away. Perhaps Leliana knew it, too.

 

“Time for our date already? Ah, but you look lovely,” he teased.

 

This time, instead of calling him names or making a face, she pretended he hadn't said anything at all. “I thought we’d take a walk down into the city. Stretch our legs.”

 

“Of course. By the way, I've finished with your blades. Catch.”

 

Without waiting for an answer, he tossed the cloth-wrapped bundle at her, and, as predicted, she caught it without missing a beat. To her credit, she did grace him with a convincingly surprised yelp. She did not, however, like the satisfied grin that snuck its way onto his face.  
  
“You _must_ warn me if you’re going to do that,” she scolded, sighing, and put them back in her holsters.

 

They began their walk down onto the streets of the Diamond Quarter. There were not many citizens about, and those who were, seemed intent on being left alone.

 

“Are you trying to see if I can actually hold my own in battle?” Leliana said. “Because I can assure you I can, even if I _was_ a lay sister.”

 

“Oh, of _that_ I had no doubt, Sister. But you were not always a lay sister, correct? The way you carry yourself and react to your environment reminds me of — what do you Orlesians call it? Bard?” He shrugged. “I’ve met enough Bards to know a few of your tells. Or is the official rumor still that you have none?”

  
Leliana frowned in a way that might have killed him, if looks could kill — and if you asked a bard, they would've said they could. “I am not a bard, Zevran.” At his look, she sighed, “...anymore.”

  
“Oh, I understand. I suppose it is similar to how I am not a Crow anymore, yes?”

  
“You aren’t. You may still have the skills, but it is now up to you how you choose to use them — and against whom.” She gave him a brief, noticeable glance. Perhaps a threat? He took note of it.

  
“Is that all that makes a person? Intent?”

  
“I chose to leave my old life and start a new one to do good,” Leliana said. It sounded sincere, but rehearsed, also. “I believe intent makes up a large part of a person.” 

  
Zevran hummed. “Well, Leliana, you may have regrets about your former profession, but I have none. I am who I have always been.”

  
“And you’re fine with that?” She didn’t look convinced.

  
“Why shouldn’t I be? I happen to be good at what I do.”

 

“I... suppose,” she sighed, and left it at that.

 

Leliana didn’t look like she wanted to answer, even if he had been expecting one. Despite the many things he didn’t like about being a Crow, killing was not one of them. It was the one thing he reliably _could_ do. It wasn’t as if he could suddenly decide to become a tailor, instead.

 

Not, it seemed, that his services were especially needed at the moment.

 

Eventually, the Assembly meeting adjourned, and the two Wardens emerged from it, tired and annoyed.

 

“No luck?” Leliana frowned.

 

“We'd have better luck convincing the Chantry to give us back the Dales,” Yun grumbled.

 

“So we have nothing to show for the week we've been here?"

 

“Not... exactly," Alistair said. "See, we did ask what we could do to help the process along...”

 

“And they said to pull a Paragon out our ass,” Yun said, snorting. “Keep in mind: this was hour five of the meeting. It was the funniest joke anyone had ever heard."

 

“...And then what?" Leliana asked, after it became clear that they had reached the end of Yun's sentence with no clear conclusion in sight.

 

“Well, that's sort of... it,” Alistair said, somewhat sheepishly.

 

“Really? Quite the feat, although I don't see how conjuring a dwarf from one’s nethers really solves any of our current problems,” Zevran said, amused.

 

“No, it solves all our problems, actually. lf, by Paragon, you meant Branka, and by nethers, you meant the Deep Roads—”

 

“And I do,” Alistair said.

 

“It’s better than giving up and leaving,” Yun said, as an expression that Zevran could only describe as ‘sudden heartburn’ crept onto Alistair's face.

 

“Quite the endorsement, eh?” he said dully. “Better than nothing. Besides, they assigned us a dwarf from the warrior caste — Oghren, I think it was. They seemed very happy to be rid of him, to be honest...”

 

“You _agreed_ to this?” Leliana said, her tone suggesting that her surprise was aimed mainly at the fact that the Wardens had actually agreed on something, rather than at the fact that the thing they agreed on was absolutely insane.

 

“I know, right?" Alistair said drily. “Nothing like a warm and cozy death wish to bring people together.”

 

* * *

 

“What happened between them, anyway? The Wardens?” Zevran asked Leliana later at dinner. The two Wardens were sat on opposite ends of the suite, engaged in occasional, slightly uncomfortable eye contact — which seemed contagious, as Leliana immediately became uncomfortable, as well.

 

“It was... a terrible decision,” she said uncertainly, “but l — I believe it was the right one. Oh, shall I tell you...?”

 

Zevran chuckled. “Not if it would get you killed, my dear. l was only curious. It sounded like a big dirty secret was all, like an illicit affair or something.”

 

“Oh, no,” Leliana said, looking relieved.

 

“Was it better than an affair?”

 

“What?” she said, looking less relieved.

 

“Or worse?”

 

“ _No_ ,” she said, not so much scandalized as annoyed. “It is simply... not my story to tell. It would be disrespectful.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I don’t mean to say _you_ are, even though — well, that is—”

 

“I am quite aware of my lack of propriety, but I am capable of behaving, believe it or not,” he said. “I understand. Perhaps I will ask them myself sometime. Perhaps they will even tell me.”

 

That seemed to be alright by Leliana, and she returned her attention to her dinner without another word on the subject. Zevran suspected, though, that her apprehension at telling the story was about more than just respect, though it was a useful cover.

 

There was always something about the dynamic between the two Wardens that made Zevran suspect that their current animosity was not the result of forcing two people together who disliked each other, but was actually the result of a falling-out, and now Leliana confirmed his suspicions. He wondered how long they had known each other for, to have this dynamic beneath the anger. He wondered how long they’d been feuding. He wondered how terrible the crime must have been.

 

Zevran took a sip of wine (the finest, he was assured, imported — or, more likely, smuggled — from Ferelden, a claim he completely believed) and turned his thoughts elsewhere. Those ruminations and theories about What Had Happened were all moot, entertaining as they were. What he really needed to focus on was convincing Yun that he was useful. He hadn’t really had a chance yet, and they hadn't given him one, either.

 

He found his gaze drifting back over to the Wardens. He wondered how he should proceed.

 

* * *

 

There was a certain thrill in tracking a target, in following without being seen, in closing in on the kill. Zevran loved build-up, loved escalation — the more drawn-out, the better. The frustration and eagerness all culminated in the satisfaction that came with the completion of the assassination. It was... fun.

 

On some level, following Yun around their suite as they packed was similar. The adrenaline rush was familiar. The uncertainty of the situation was, as well. It was possible for them to simply turn around, fed up with his begging, and kill him where he stood.

 

Not that he would ever admit that it was _begging_.

 

“ _No_ ,” said Yun, for the second time that morning. This time, they gave him a look. “I’m already getting an earful about this from Sten; l do not need to hear it from you, too.” Zevran wondered briefly what would constitute “an earful” from Sten.

 

He wasn’t sure what made him think convincing the Warden would be easy. He knew they were stubborn as a mule... but one needed to _create_ opportunities sometimes, rather than wait for them come along.

 

“But the Deep Roads are dangerous, my dear,” he said, plowing on. “Wouldn’t it be safer to bring more people along?” _Or, at least, one other person who_ isn't _a dog?_ he thought to himself. Cau was an intelligent dog, but surely she couldn’t compare to... well, anyone else?

 

He wasn’t sure he liked what that implied about Yun’s feelings about him.

 

Yun lost their grip on their sword, and it clattered to the ground. The sound, and the sudden absence of it, left a choking tension hanging in the air.

 

What he wouldn’t give for this to be _easy_.The blood in his veins buzzed.

 

“If I have to keep telling you no...” They paused, and took a breath to calm themself and pick their sword up from where it fell. It was a slow, tired motion, performed as though Yun would’ve liked nothing more than to just lay down and never get up. But they slid the sword back into its holster at their hip, and looked sharply at him. “Drop it.”

 

The difference between then and now was that _this_ wasn’t fun. As the deafening chorus of ‘this was a bad idea’ faded away, he faintly heard himself say, “Suit yourself,” and Yun took the conclusion of the statement as a cue to leave.

 

The remaining silence left him to his thoughts, and none of them had anything new to say. He couldn’t be trusted. He knew this. Yun did not particularly care for his company. He knew that, as well; the past few days have proven that, seeing as Yun more or less left him completely alone. None of it was surprising, given that he’d only been in their company for two weeks, although it did make him wonder what all that friendliness at the beginning was all about. Perhaps it was simply civility.

 

It didn’t matter, in the end. He still needed to assure his safety in the group, and he feared his time was already running out.

 

* * *

 

_“Failing a mission is death. Compromising a mission is worse than death. And there is no use for a dead assassin.”_

 

He had not failed the mission. It went very well, in fact; a mark, dead, and a compromised agent, neutralized? It was practically worthy of accolade.

 

But that was not what was waiting for Zevran back home.

 

He and Taliesen went separately to give their version of the report, as was standard. They were given until the morning to gather their thoughts.

 

Zevran thought nothing. What was there to say? The mission was a success; the rogue element dealt with. He thought and felt nothing out of the ordinary the night they returned home, and the morning before the briefing.

 

Immediately after, Zevran fell sick. He could not recall making his way into the courtyard of House Arainai — nor could he recall heaving into the bushes there, but he knew he did. He knew, because all things begin somewhere, sometime, and being sick in a bush might as well be a beginning. There are those who would argue that an end is not much different.

 

“What is a life worth?” he asked Taliesen on one of those foggy days, so out of the blue and entirely uncharacteristically he was surprised the Arainai Talon didn’t leap out from behind the drapes to kill him then and there for either sowing dissent or being possessed.

 

Taliesen grunted, half his conscious still in a dream, and yet awake enough to be annoyed at having been interrupted. If not for the question, this would have been a normal scene. Perhaps, later, when Taliesen was fully awake, and fully annoyed, Zevran would have teased a smile back onto his face and then kissed his handiwork.

 

That day, and all the days between the impromptu funeral in the countryside and his own death, he could taste nothing in his mouth except ash.

 

“Whatever the contract pays. You know that.”

 

He did. “And what are we worth?”

 

Taliesen laughed faintly, and fell first into silence, and then back to sleep. Zevran breathed in the silence that should have been familiar, and yet was the furthest thing from it. Here, in that moment, he felt the chasm that had been steadily growing between them finally split, stranding them on opposite sides of a canyon.

 

They were worth nothing. And yet, Taliesen did not let knowing this render him useless. In that, Zevran was made suddenly, and keenly aware of what he did not understand until that moment.

 

A tool that performs its duty well, even when subjected to the harshest abuse, is always worth more than the one that shatters from a single hit.

 

* * *

 

The smoke stung his eyes, drawing out tears that drove clean lines down his ash covered cheeks, and collected in his throat in a lump that kept him from swallowing or breathing.

 

The mass on the pyre was unrecognizable.

 

It was vaguely body-shaped. There had been clothes on it, a few minutes ago. But there was nothing left of it to tie to an identity. Nothing left of the person it was.

 

The smoke hung heavy above his head, twisting like a snake into the sky. The morning dew on the grass soaked his legs, through his pants.

 

He had a vague feeling that this was wrong, that it shouldn’t have happened. Not if there was any true justice in the world. Not if there was a single person who cared, and not if they’d cared fast enough. But the heat was cooking his head.

 

Suddenly, the pieces of charcoal that were once fingers twitched. Then — and the Maker himself must have willed it, because Zevran actively did not want to — he reached for them.

 

All at once, the body-shaped mass sat up and wrapped its smoldering hands around his throat. It did not burn, but he knew it should have. He should have fought it, but it wasn’t as if it hadn’t been choking him the entire time it was burning, anyway. In his mind, there was no point.

 

The ashes on its face moved as the body spoke wordlessly, and Zevran watched in a daze. Its mouth moved continuously and repeatedly, as though it was chanting, but he couldn’t make out the words. As its lips moved, the blackened surface of its face cracked, and ashes fell away, bit by bit. The edges of his vision went black as the embers started to die, and sound returned to the corpse.

 

_“Zevran.”_

* * *

 

 

It was a week after the Wardens left with Oghren and the mabari. Also, strangely enough, Morrigan, who it seemed wouldn’t have batted an eye if anyone in their group died or was mauled terribly or both — yet, she went. At Yun’s request, even.

 

“Mages are hardier than you might think,” Leliana said that morning as they sat eating breakfast, trying to talk an empty glass into being half full. “Morrigan is powerful, as well... and can keep a distance, at the least.”

 

“I have never regarded Morrigan as frail,” Zevran said, keeping his face neutral. Sten grunted. It sounded vaguely petulant to Zevran’s ears.

 

“It is mad,” Sten said. “All of this. It is a waste of time.”

 

“We can’t just take Orzammar’s soldiers by force,” Leliana said. The look on Sten’s face said very clearly, “Why not?”

 

“Nothing here makes sense,” he said. “The words, the politics... it is mad. There is a Blight on the horizon, and yet everyone seems content to gaze at their navels.”

 

“You, my friend, have just summed up politics, I'm afraid,” Zevran said.

 

“It is not how things are done in the Qun,” Sten said.

 

Neither he nor Leliana felt the need to respond to that.

 

He and Leliana took to long walks around the city. They'd watch a Proving once in a while, but while the action was entertainment enough, the cultural significance went entirely over their heads, and Leliana felt uncomfortable enough with this to decide against going this time. Besides, not knowing whether the Wardens were alive or dead made it harder to enjoy almost anything. At least, he needed the Wardens alive for his own life’s sake. Leliana probably cared about them personally.

 

“If we're not back in three weeks, we're probably dead,” Yun said before they left, which was either something to hold on to or a deadline by which to prepare their wills. He supposed he always did like the excitement of uncertainty, but this was different from dying in battle. This was suffocation.

 

“I'm sure they will be fine,” Leliana said. It was becoming something of a mantra of hers lately, but Zevran wondered whether her faith was really so unwavering. What, exactly, was she putting faith into: the Wardens’ ability, or the Maker's supposed intent to keep them alive?

 

He had a decent grasp of how well the Wardens could fight. He also knew that even heroes die, and that no amount of prayer or faith kept bad things from happening to good people. But was it better to hope, instead?

 

He decided he hated Orzammar. It made him too introspective. And, as the throng of people got thicker the closer to the market they were, it was too crowded. He must have had more dwarves brush past him this morning than he’s met in his entire life.

 

“Do you hear something?” Leliana asked suddenly.

 

He didn't, aside from the sounds of the market crowds. Gradually, though, he started to notice a smaller voice calling out to them from a distance.

 

“Hey!”

 

He and Leliana followed the sound to a smaller figure, jumping and waving at them from a shop front. She was a young dwarf, with bright red hair and a brighter smile.

 

“Finally! I've been trying to find you for days!” she said as they approached. She happily closed the distance. “First, father wouldn't let me take a few hours off because there was a Proving match on in a few days, and _then_ we were on call to fix broken weapons and things — and _then_ I heard the surfacers were planning a trip into the Deep Roads and I thought, oh _no_ , because what if they die? Then I thought, but some of them are Grey Wardens, surely they'll make it — but I just couldn't wait and I was so devastated—”

 

“Wait, wait,” Leliana cut in finally. “I’m sorry, but do we know each other? Zevran?”

 

He gave her a quizzical look. “Why would you assume I had anything to do with it?”

 

“Considering he is essentially chained to you at all times,” Sten added. Leliana balked.

 

“What?”

 

“He does not leave the inn without you,” Sten shrugging.

 

“We don't know each other,” the dwarf reassured them, the _yet_ going implied. “I’m Dagna. Do either of you know what the Circle is? You do, right? You're surfacers. _Anyway,_ I wanted to ask a — big, important — favor of you.”

 

Before Zevran could even think the sentence “What would a dwarf want with the Circle?” in its entirety, Dagna continued:

 

“Would you please take me with you when you go back to the surface?”

 

Leliana sighed and started to say something, but stopped when a dwarf brushed hard against her. “Excuse... hey!”

 

She started pushing through the crowds, attempting to chase after the dwarf, who was now distinguishable as he was fleeing as well.

 

“What happened?” Sten called out.

 

“The wallet!”

 

At that, he and Zevran began to chase after them as well, if only to not lose her. Zevran could at least keep Leliana in view, but he could tell he was leaving Sten behind. Still, he kept his pace. If Sten had made it this far, he could survive on his own in Orzammar.

 

The chase took him past the common level of the city, past the shop stalls and taverns, and into the more neglected parts, where the buildings were either falling apart or dilapidated. There were less people hanging about here, and more looking out through cracked shutters and doors. Zevran had heard the words Dust Town during his stay here, but he’d not had the honor of visiting.

 

He found Leliana leaning outside a door, panting. She saw him approach, and indicated at the door breathlessly.

 

Zevran looked at her, and then tried the door. Locked. He should’ve expected that.

 

“It’s not... a normal lock,” Leliana managed as she got her breath back. “It needs... some sort of key.”

 

“High security,” Zevran commented, then kicked it. “Heavy.”

 

“I fear the kind of people who have need of a door like this,” Leliana said.

 

“Is a few silver worth opening it?”

 

“It wasn’t _my_ wallet he stole,” Leliana said, dragging out another pouch from her pockets, and shaking it. “ _This_ is mine. And if he had gotten his hands on _this_ , I wouldn’t have bothered chasing him here.”

 

“Then whose—”

 

“It was Yun’s.” Leliana sighed. “They left it to me for safekeeping while they were in the Deep Roads.”

 

“Oh. Well, we can make the money back—”

 

“It isn’t _money,_ ” Leliana said, now irritated. “Yun cannot hold onto a silver for longer than an afternoon. It was... keepsakes. Sentimental things. They didn’t want to lose it in the Deep Roads, so they gave it to me. For safekeeping.”

 

She scoffed at this, as if to say “Look how well that turned out,” but part of Zevran was still — shocked — at how much was kept from him. He knew he was still not trusted, per se...

 

He sighed. He should’ve expected that. “Then we must get it back, yes?”

 

He took her silence as agreement. The problem now was that they had no idea where to go from here.

 

“Perhaps we can ask around?” Leliana suggested, but even she sounded like she had no faith in the idea. Nevertheless, they made their way out into the common area the buildings surrounded.

 

lt looked like it could've been a forum or small marketplace if the residents felt inclined towards that sort of thing. As it was, the clearing was mostly abandoned, aside from the occasional beggar. As did the houses around it, though Zevran was sure he saw movement in the windows in his peripheral vision. It was probably safe to assume they were being watched either way, by the upper and lower castes alike. It didn't seem as though the residents of Orzammar took to strangers without some level of suspicion.

 

“Well, it isn't everyday that Nadezda sees _one_ well-dressed stranger, let alone two,” said a woman who was sat outside one of the probably abandoned homes, a couple of strides from the locked door. “Spare a coin or two?”

 

Zevran wasn't convinced she hadn't overheard their conversation earlier, or at least put two and two together, but decided to play his part for now. “As I'm sure you've noticed, my lady, we are somewhat short in the way of coin just now...” She chuckled at his choice of word.

 

“I could make it worth your while.” She nodded at the locked door. “I don't have the key, but I do have information you might find useful.”

 

Zevran knelt to look her in the eye, and she took this as a cue to continue. “That door leads to the Carta's hideout. Carved out of stone. Jarvia’s been busier than usual as of late. Bad sign. For you, too, maybe.”

 

“Do you know anything about the Carta?” Leliana asked.

 

Nadezda laughed. Her voice started to get raspy as she did. “Know anything? I _lived_ it, stranger. Until... well. You can guess.”

 

Zevran glanced down at her legs. It was hard to say what happened to them, exactly... but he wasn't here to determine that. “A pity.” She waved him off.

 

“Doesn't matter. Life's the same for a Duster whether it's as a beggar or in the Carta. What you need is a bone key. Lucky for you, I saw a couple thugs take roost in that house a few hours ago. Might be sleeping. Folk like them sleep like rocks.”

 

Zevran dimly remembered that it was still morning. Leliana reached into her purse and retrieved two silver. The pouch stopped jingling.

 

“Thank you,” she told Nadezda, pressing the coins into her palm.

 

“The door has probably seen better days, what with being busted open periodically,” Nadezda said as she dropped the coins into her own wallet. “Poor sods that lived there haven't been seen in weeks.”

 

“You've been more than helpful, my lady,” Zevran said. Nadezda laughed again.

 

“You really aren't from around here, or you'd quit with that ‘lady’ crap.”

 

“It is only the truth. Who do you take me for, to treat someone with such beauty and generosity so rudely?”

 

“Cad. Best of luck to you.”

 

As they made their way towards the house, the absurdity of their plan seemed to fully sink in.

 

“No briefing, no maps, no more information,” he muttered.

 

“Are we mad?” Leliana wondered out loud.

 

“Only for Yun, dear.”

 

Leliana rolled her eyes.

 

They didn't try the door first, which was just as well, since it was being blocked by a chair from the inside. The windows were boarded, though not well, and the interior was visible through the slits. Zevran could make out more than Leliana could, but he still couldn't tell if the figures in the corner were indeed asleep. On the other side of the small room, he could see a doorway, and another space with a door. It was not barricaded from the inside.

 

“I will approach from the front,” Leliana decided, when he relayed this information. Zevran retrieved a few reagents from his pockets, and stuffed the ingredients into a small linen sack. He put the sack into another pocket, next to the catalyst, and made his way to the back door, lock picks in hand.

 

The lock wasn't complicated at all. The door itself was hidden first by a worn tapestry, then flanked by rotten, broken crates and barrels, effectively camouflaging it from those not looking for it. It made for an easy escape for the house's inhabitants. The lock clicked, and Zevran waited for his cue.

 

After a moment, there was a loud clatter from inside, and Zevran quickly emptied the catalyst onto the sack, which immediately began to smoke. He pushed the door open enough to see where the thugs were, and tossed it in. He caught a brief glimpse of Leliana at the other doorway before he slammed his door shut, and heard Leliana do the same on her side.

 

The yelling increased in volume briefly before abruptly stopping. Zevran opened the door again, and waited until the gas dissipated before going inside.

 

“A bit strong, don't you think?” Leliana wondered as she came inside, wrinkling her nose at the lingering smell.

 

“There was a job to be done,” Zevran said, by way of explanation, and began to root through the dwarves’ pockets. “Besides, _I_ don't smell a thing.”

 

“You Crows probably desensitize yourselves.”

 

“And you, my dear, have been inhaling Chantry incense for too long.” He pulled out a thin object. A bone key made of literal finger bones. “How perfectly dwarven.”

 

They exited the house, and barricaded the doors. After a moment of consideration, Leliana tore a board off one of the windows.

 

The key slid into the lock easily, and the door swung open slowly. the room was some sort of storage room, likely a front to dissuade whatever trespassers who managed to get inside from going further. The crates were covered in a thick layer of dust, and, when opened, were filled with rubble. They both activated the witchlights hanging from their belts, bathing the room in thin blue light.

 

“There must be a door hidden somewhere,” Leliana said, and began to push on the walls.

 

Zevran lifted his witchlight and watched the dust motes. It might be a stretch to find a draft in a room made of stone, but it couldn't hurt. There did happen to be movement, so he followed it. It occurred to him that the draft might just be coming from the two of them moving around a few seconds later, since it was leading him straight to Leliana. He quickly lowered his light before Leliana would eventually turn around and see him. Unfortunately he knocked a jar off a shelf on his way down and it shattered on the stone floor. He knelt down to look at it. The liquid inside was dark, and sticky. He decided he didn't want to know.

 

Just then, he noticed a handprint in the dust on the shelf, too low and too small to be Leliana's. He placed his own hand over the print, and pushed. Something in the wall clunked, and the shelf budged.

 

“Good work,” Leliana said, approaching him.

 

“You wouldn't be saying that if you'd seen me a moment before.”

 

Leliana furrowed her brows at him, but decided to simply go through the opening behind the shelf without questioning him.

 

Beyond the opening was what looked to be a tunnel, as Nadezda claimed, carved directly into the rock. Some torches were mounted to the walls, meaning someone had been through recently, but there was no one to be seen now.

 

“Was this a trap?” Leliana wondered, snuffing out her light.

 

“Hmm.” Zevran closed his hand over the witchlight for a moment, until the light went out. “Maybe. Or it could be that no one is home.”

 

“What would the Carta want with a few coins? I mean, why risk us finding their hideout over a wallet?”

 

“I think our friend was hoping we would be smart enough to pick our battles.”

 

“Did we even look rich enough to rob?”

 

“No. But this pickpocket is obviously a poor judge of character, since we clearly aren't very smart, either.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” Leliana scoffed.

 

They continued into the hideout, one tunnel splitting into three, all equally empty, all ending at a door. Zevran looked at Leliana, and shrugged. “We might as well pick one.”

 

They approached a door. If Sten were turned into a door, Zevran thought, he would be this door. Large, for a dwarven complex at least, silent, and unmoving. That could describe most doors, but the difference was that he could rattle those doors. He could kick them, as a means of evaluation. If he tried to touch this door, as with Sten, he might immediately be killed.

 

With all this in mind, he decided to knock.

 

Leliana shot him an incredulous look, and again as he tried the handle. To both their surprise, it swung open. Inside was a very tall figure, taller than any human, looking straight at them.

 

The qunari removed his helmet, and grunted. “Took you long enough. Jarvia's been waiting.”

 

“Leliana.”

 

“What.”

 

“I am sure you'll be pleased to hear me say this,” Zevran said. He took a breath. “You were right. This was a trap.”

 

“I am _so_ pleased.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I assume you won't be telling us how Jarvia knows who we are or why she wants us here,” Zevran said.

 

Their captor led them through a series of rooms and tunnels, most of them empty. Of those that weren't, they were occupied by dwarves who didn't look like they knew what was going on, either. As such, there was a lot of staring. Zevran didn't blame them. He, too, would stare at a human and an elf being led around by two qunari.

 

“No,” said the qunari in the back.

 

“I figured. Still, she could have _asked.”_

 

“I suppose. But these are not my suggestions to make.” The qunari in the front shrugged. “She’s paying me to bring the surfacers to her, so that's what I'm doing.”

 

“So I would be correct in assuming you don't know, anyway?”

 

“You learn fast,” he said almost approvingly. “You might even survive Jarvia.”

 

At this, it appeared they reached the end of their journey. They were shoved into a room, which was larger than all the others, and looked a bit nicer, too, if he was being honest. He also noticed at least four different traps scattered around the room as soon as the qunari shut the door behind them, and made their way over to the lone figure in the room, who must have been Jarvia, if all the different blades strapped to her meant anything.

 

“Oh, good, you made it. I was afraid you wouldn't come,” Jarvia said.

 

“How could we be so rude to ignore such a gracious invite?” Leliana said.

 

“It isn't every day one has the honor of being robbed,” Zevran added. “And the scavenger hunt for the key; that was inventive.”

 

Jarvia narrowed her eyes. “What?”

 

“Having us ask the beggar nearby for the tip about your men in the abandoned house. Making us fight them for the key. Making us find the hidden door in the storage room.” Zevran frowned as Jarvia looked no less confused. “Actually, that doesn't sound like a solid plan, now that I've said it out loud.”

 

“Those sodding drunks,” Jarvia muttered. “They were supposed to ambush you when you got there after chasing — ugh, but they overslept — whatever. Lucky for me, you two were stupid enough to get all the way here all by yourselves. By the way, you two didn't notice something was off when you collected them without seeing my men?”

 

The qunari who was in front shrugged. “I was able to do my job, so I didn't see a problem.”

 

The qunari who was behind said nothing.

 

“... More to the point — why are we here?” Leliana asked.

 

“Oh, I thought you knew.” Jarvia fished something out of a pocket. “Look familiar?”

 

It was Yun's wallet. Jarvia sneered at it, and tossed it at Zevran's feet. He picked it up. It didn't feel like there was anything in it at all.

 

“Frankly, I thought the companions of Grey Wardens would keep more on them than some sort of shitty trinket. But that isn't what I'm after.”

 

She stepped closer to them, still projecting a sort of ease. “Word is, the Wardens are going to choose a king as soon as they come back from the Deep Roads. I want them to add a stipulation. I don't care whose ass is on the throne, so long as I get to keep sitting in mine. You two,” she said, jabbing a finger in their direction, “are going to be my leverage.”

 

As she spoke, something odd was happening behind her. The qunari who was in back moved quietly over to the qunari who was in front; quieter than Zevran thought a qunari wearing plate armor could move. He swiftly incapacitated the other qunari.

 

“So we are your prisoners,” he said, almost missing his cue. He didn't dare glance at Leliana, though he was certain she was also seeing what he was seeing, which was the qunari now moving towards the doors in the back of the room, stepping over what Zevran assumed were more traps, and twisting the handles with his bare hands in such a way that the door could not be opened.

 

Jarvia grinned. “Yes. Tell me: do the Wardens care about you very much?”

 

“I don't know what you mean.” He watched the qunari move to the other side of the room.

 

“My people have been watching you, you know,” Jarvia said. “Very interesting stuff. The way you stare at them from afar. Sickening, really.”

 

“Ah, you've forced the truth out of me, I'm afraid,” Zevran said, letting his tongue loose. The qunari was having more trouble with this handle. “Maybe I am a little smitten. It is a source of great misery for me to admit that it is unrequited, unfortunately. They have eyes for another.”

 

Jarvia raised an eyebrow, seemingly unconvinced. “Really.”

 

“Oh yes. I cry myself to sleep nightly over it, in fact. Look at these dark circles. They are a mark of my eternal heartbreak.”

 

Leliana made a noise that sounded like she was choking.

 

Jarvia laughed, and came even closer to him. “You're not going to convince me to let you go.”

 

“I am baring my soul to you; that you would be so heartless about it is going to make my dark circles even worse!”

 

Suddenly, a very large blade slid out of Jarvia’s chest. She looked down at it, and it twisted upward. As she fell to the ground, the qunari removed his helmet with a very familiar sounding grunt.

 

“For once, your incessant chatter proved useful,” Sten said.

 

“Sten! How — why — how are you here?” Leliana asked incredulously.

 

“The dwarf girl. She recognized the thief as one of this... Carta. She also said she knew of a way in to their hideout.”

 

“And you were sure we would be inside?”

 

Sten shrugged. “After an hour of waiting, I figured you two might have done something foolish. And I was right.”

 

They couldn't really argue with that.

 

“What did the thief take?”

 

“Yun's things,” Leliana said. “If it had been mine, I'd have let it go, but...”

 

Zevran opened the pouch. Inside was a long, woven red cord strung with colored beads, culminating in a piece of hammered metal in the shape of a flat ring. He wondered what it was.

 

Leliana watched him put it back in the pouch with equal curiosity, but shook it off. “You said Dagna helped you? Where is she?”

 

“Safe.” Sten turned and walked away. “There is another way out.”

 

He led them down a different tunnel that looked rougher than the rest; perhaps newer. Beyond that tunnel was a hole that led somewhere that was indoors, and what looked like a shelf that was shoved to the side to make way for the opening. Zevran turned to Sten.

 

“You didn’t _dig_ this tunnel, surely?”

 

Sten’s hand twitched like he wanted to hit him.

 

At the other end was an armory, a very relieved Dagna, and a very pissed off shopkeep, not very happy to have had a strange qunari, of all things, barge into his shop with his daughter, who then proceeded to head straight for the very thing he least wanted strangers to know about, and open the Carta’s back door. With the help of his daughter, no less.

 

“But they took down the Carta,” Dagna said, in an attempt to soften the impact the next thing she was going to say to him was going to have.

 

“Well... great. I guess,” he said. He looked at Sten. “He still broke my property.”

 

“And... I’m leaving with them in a few weeks!” she said, brightly.

 

Janar didn’t really take that very well, Zevran thought later, hurrying Dagna out of the shop. Disappointment was one thing, but... disowning your daughter? He could still hear Janar’s disbelief ringing in his ears. Not that he understood why Dagna wanted to do this, but surely blood was thicker, and all that?

 

“I’m sure he’ll come around,” Leliana was saying.

 

Dagna shrugged it off. “I knew it was coming. No one just _leaves_.”

 

“Is it worth it?” Leliana asked.

 

Dagna frowned for what seemed like the first time. “It has to be.”

 

 

* * *

 

It was nearing the three week cut-off Yun gave them what felt like years ago, and none of them could quite sit still for it. Dagna in particular was the most animated and, despite having been disowned a few days ago, was as chipper as she was from the moment they met her — maybe even more so. She had yet to meet the Wardens, so that could've been part of it, but Zevran suspected she was simply relieved to finally leave Orzammar, considering her father was still within spitting distance. So would he be, he supposed, although he would have much less thoughts on the mechanics of magic in relation to dwarven smithery.

 

They'd already waited for their arrival for two days; how long a time is acceptable before one assumes one's companions are dead? Crow standards were probably not applicable, because if they were, they would've said goodbye two days ago. Even Leliana appeared to have neared the bottom of her seemingly endless font of hope. She now paced the commons nearest the gate to the Deep Roads silently, trying not to get herself too worked up about the situation.

 

“What if,” she said, for the hundredth time that day.

 

Zevran didn't answer. He'd tried, the first few times, but he could not lie to either her or himself just as much as he could not say it aloud that they may have to prepare for the worst. He wondered if she had wanted to be comforted, or if she was simply talking through her nerves. It was, again, the idleness. Surely.

 

Late afternoon, however, there was a sudden commotion in the commons. Of course it was when they finally managed to convince themselves to get some food that the Wardens would show up.

 

The closer they got to the gate, the more obvious it was that something was — not wrong, exactly, but... different. The dwarves who had gathered were almost silent with awe.

 

“I... I think that's the _Paragon_ ,” gasped Dagna.

 

They all looked unwell, but Yun seemed especially ashen, looking like they hadn't slept well in weeks — which was probably the case. But there were layers there, the things they'd seen that made a home in the dark and sunken places on their face. At the fore, however, was anger. All those things, manifesting as Yun's preferred state of being.

 

The council must have eyes and ears everywhere, because suddenly, the crowd parted from the other side, representatives from the council appearing in time to meet the Wardens. Yun stood there, daring them with bloodshot eyes and an understanding of what they mutually had to lose by protesting this turn of events.

 

“Well,” one representative sighed. “We certainly hadn't expected you to come back, much less this... display."

 

The corner of Yun's mouth turned up, mirthlessly.

 

* * *

 

The next day, the council prepared for what was to come next. They had asked for a Paragon, jokingly or otherwise, and the Wardens had delivered. That sort of thing isn't to be taken lightly. As such, both Bhelen and Harrowmont made an appearance, if only to see if their only living Paragon was indeed still alive.

 

“I was told that I am to choose the next King,” Branka had said the day before, in the Assembly chamber. The derisive snort went unsaid. “Apparently, Paragons do that too, now. I wasn't exactly informed."

 

The chamber was silent. Then, a cough.

 

“It was a joke, actually," someone said sheepishly.

 

“Wardens have no sense of humor," Yun said flatly. “You also gave us no other option. In light of that, this route was the most reasonable.”

 

“...Right. Reasonable,” said Branka. “I was also told that I am to be tried for crimes against my House. Wasn't aware Wardens could decide that, either. How much have I missed?”

 

The chamber erupted into furious murmurs.

 

“You don't deny the willful murder of your own family, though,” Yun said.

 

Branka sighed. “I don't.”

 

Yun hummed, and the furor in the chamber increased. “Well, that sounds like a crime to me, but I'm no dwarf. Anyway, request fulfilled. Whatever you want to do next is out of our hands. You all did promise your cooperation after this, didn't you?”

 

“Yes,” said one councilmember, “ _after_ a King is chosen.”

 

The attention returned to Branka, who all but groaned. “What do I care who the King is? Fine. As your Paragon, I decree that the next King will be... whoever bests the other in a Proving match.”

 

The chamber finally exploded with noise, with reactions ranging from incredulity to offense to assurance that, if this is what the Paragon has decided, then this is what they will do. Bhelen and Harrowmont looked at each other, clearly not having considered this turn of events as anywhere near possible.

 

Branka shrugged, and sat down in her seat.

 

* * *

 

The Proving match was set for the next day, but none of their party was in attendance. The wardens slept almost an entire day, waking just in time for early dinner.

 

They had been offered another week of stay, even after their roundabout way of fulfilling a political promise, because they also managed to accidentally take down the head of the Carta in the meanwhile. This, apparently, called for large sums of meat to be delivered to their suite.

 

It was, by Zevran's calculations, around sunset that Yun groggily made their way to the common area, piled a plate high with various meats, and tried to return to their room, where they ran into Zevran, who had been staring blankly out a window in the hallway.

 

“...Hey,” they said. They looked marginally less tired, but did look as one does when one sleeps for an entire day. So, better.

 

“Avoiding your adoring fans, I see,” Zevran said.

 

They grinned wryly, and picked a charred item from their plate to gnaw on. “Not really in the mood to talk about... what happened. Just wanted food.”

 

“Ah. Well, I think Alistair has been handling the subject of What Happened fairly well. Between you and me, though — he isn't the greatest storyteller I've ever met.”

 

Yun nodded absently, not rising to the bait as he’d thought. “I am not planning on interrogating you, either, if that's what's worrying you,” he added.

 

Yun smiled blandly. “Then can I go?”

 

Zevran shrugged. “I am hardly the one to tell you what to do.”

 

He watched them. There was a slight tremble in the hand that held the plate, but it could have been the sleep not quite out of their body yet. It could've been the strain of trying to hold aloft so much food for an extended period of time. Yun stood there, long enough to make him think that there was something unsaid in the silence.

 

“Zevran...” they started, and then seemed unsure of where they wanted the sentence to go. They looked at him, straight in the eyes, and in them he thought he could see desperation. His chest tightened in anticipation — for what, he wasn’t sure.

 

“I’ll... see you later.” Yun’s lips tightened into a kind of smile, and they broke the gaze. When they glanced at him again as they left, against the glare of the lava in the distance, Zevran could see nothing there.


End file.
